The Witcherette
by Aethowyn
Summary: Eléanor is a rarity among rarities, a female Witcher. A note-quite-yet-professional monster slayer with a wry sense of humor, a weakness for hopeless cases and full of youthful dreams.
1. I Am the Witcher You Seek, But I Am Not

**First attempt at fanfic for over 10 years. Back then it was Star Trek, now it's The Witcher. I am excited! :)**

**My story is about a relatively inexperienced, brazen but kind female witcher; it's more a coming-of-age thing than a story about a legend like Geralt. The title isn't a diminuitive, but a play on "suffragette".  
><strong>

**I love Andrzej Sapkowski's work, but I am trying to give it a feminist (are you scared yet?), inclusive spin. There will be strong, facetted female characters with normal bust sizes (look closely!), LGBT people, people with disabilities and men who can cry, too. My story is set in the same world as Geralt and takes place a short while after the second game, but it will only include references to the established characters and events; they will not appear prominently in my story. This is not a fangirly Mary-Sue plot.  
><strong>

**It also includes violence and strong language, and some steamy content, thus the M rating right away. (I don't think The Witcher works for a K... lol) I also tried to include some nods to other favorite franchises of mine, as well as some tongue-in-cheek stuff about the RPG genre per se, as I became a fan of The Witcher through the computer games.**

**Sapkowski's creations are, as far as I know, his intellectual property alone, but Projekt Red and the other licensees may have contributed to some parts I'm using here. Speaking of which: I have played both games on PC and read The Last Wish, ordered Blood of Elves. Please don't judge me on things I can't know that are established in the other books; I don't speak Polish, so I will have to wait.  
><strong>

**Would love your feedback! And hope you enjoy!**

* * *

><p>„What is it?" she asked impatiently.<p>

"I expected a Witcher", the hooded man said quietly.

"And you got one."

The hooded man looked around. The backstreet, if one could even call it a street, was dark and quiet, except for a dog barking at the moon or who-knows-what. "Where is he? Don't play games with me, woman, or I will find someone else for the job!"

Elora cursed under her breath. "_I_ am the Witcher you seek."

"You?" He was surprised, but his voice didn't betray anything else. Maybe a well-versed speaker? Elora tried to gauge his expression as he spoke, but his hood was pulled far into his face, and he was looking down. Infravision was nice, but only when it could be applied to the things that mattered. What did not matter, but was plainly visible was a badly stitched-up hole in the cloak and his tattered old boots. "I didn't know there were female Witchers… wait, does that not make you a Witch?"

Elora half-turned around, pointing at two swords strapped on her back – one made of silver with an adorned hilt, one a delicate looking blade of a lesser metal. "See a fucking broomstick?"

Her potential client snorted. "I have no need of a woman."

The Witcher raised a brow. "What kind of contract could only be fulfilled by a male Witcher?" she said slowly, while thinking it over. Then she blurted out, getting ahead of herself: "You know that females can deal with strigas or bruxae too!" (She did, however, hope it was not about either.)

The hooded man waved his hand dismissively "You can't help me." He turned around to leave.

Elora felt a rumble in her stomach. She was not giving up so easily. "Wait! Why would you not say what you need, and I say what I can do about it?"

The man turned around. His tone had taken on a nasty quality. "Is that so? Can you harass the blacksmith's daughter so I can step in and win a swordfight against you to _save_ her honor? Frighten her enough to make her stay with me gladly? Hah! I thought not. I will find other ways." He mounted his horse and disappeared quickly into the night.

"You should be ashamed of yourself! Filthy bastard… pig." She growled and called after him: "You should also know that Witchers never lose on purpose!" That was only half true. She had once feigned defeat to win something else. Something precious. Not that it mattered now. She kicked a stone off the dirt path angrily and felt her pocket for what little coin was left in it. After all the time she had waited for this bastard, it was already too dark to look for another contract. In Vizima, or Lyria, or… but not here. She pondered whether it had been the right choice to let him go, but it was too late anyway. Quick strokes of a sword were her forte, but quick decisions weren't. They said that came with experience, so there wasn't anything to be done about it in the short term.

She made her way back to the Waclaw Farmstead. She had hoped to move to the inn after receiving the promised earnest, but it seemed like she had another day as farm hand ahead of her. At least it was unlikely that her acquaintances would not hear from her "work" in such a remote hamlet. It wasn't the first time, either, that she had killed chickens, rescued kittens or chopped wood for a few Orens, either. Eléanor de Drakenborg, at your service, she thought grimly.

At one such time, she had required a few rare ingredients and had put her steel sword in pawn to purchase them. This was also the time when she realized that silver killed Humans just fine, if need be. And for a woman travelling Temeria on her own, there often was need.

She knocked at the farmstead's door, and entered… after cleaning her boots. The landlady, Ladva Waclawa, seemed a kind soul but an obsessive cleaner; taking into account the house was thatched and only a small part had wooden floors, it must have been tedious. Ladva was still up, fixing bait, murmuring prayers to Melitele. She looked up as Elora stood before her, nodding a silent greeting.

Her stomach, however, was less silent. Ladva shook her head. "Girl, you need to eat something. I have all sorts of things to do for you while I go fishing tomorrow. Gronar made Warg stew – don't look at me like that. He's a good cook, but Warg is Warg and I can't afford anything else right now." She got up, but Elora had already reached the fireplace to help herself. She had indeed smiled when Ladva had called her Girl (the times a Witcher was called something without a derogatory connotation were few), but her grin turned sour at the mention of Warg. But if anyone could make anything edible from that meat, it was Gronar, Ladva's husband from Skellige. He was, however, much better at preparing fish, so perhaps there was hope for tomorrow.

Elora started to eat greedily. Ladva poured her a mug of ale and continued her work. "Your blacksmith's daughter…" Elora said when the worst hunger was sated, "tell me about her." The middle-aged woman gave her a curious look, but complied. "Name is Roos. Prettiest girl in a day's reach. On horseback." Ladva nodded vividly. She had never been far outside the Hamlet, but was well-informed on many things within two days' reach. On horseback. "Her mother was taken by a wyvern when they were going to the market in Ellander many years ago. Poor girl. She takes after her father. He's quite something to look at, you'll see." Ladva laughed, and continued to tell some more tales; it appeared she had been a friend of Roos' mother, but none were of particular interest to the Witcher. She also had no intentions of mentioning the hooded man. It was not Ladva's affair. Was it even her own? Eventually, as she was finishing up the baits, Ladva gave Elora some tasks for the next day.

"Thank you, kind Ladva." Elora got up, cleaned the plate and filled up her mug. "Good night, and good luck with the fishing".

Ladva smiled. "Ohhh, you! Just filled your belly and already thinking of the next meal. You're just like my son."

Elora walked up to her little room, which had once belonged to Ladva's daughter who had married another farmer. The closet was half full with children's clothing, as none of Ladva's grandchildren were old enough to wear them yet. There were still a few girl's items in the room, like a doll made of cloth. It faintly, very faintly reminded the Witcher of her childhood, before the Law of Surprise had been invoked and she had been taken away. Away from her parents, her home, her childhood. And away from the place that burned to the ground just a short time later – Elora blamed this event for her skepticism of thatched roofs, even though she had not been present. It had not exactly been fun mastering the Igni sign for a girl afraid of the element that had killed her parents. She hung her cloak on the door and put both swords on the nightstand. (Ladva's carefully and completely unobtrusively placed book about Melitele had found its temporary storage in the lowermost drawer of the closet, but Elora respected all books and had taken care not to put any creases in it.)

There was an old, dull mirror on the wall above a little table with a bowl of water. Elora shrugged away the thoughts of fire and death from seconds before, and inscribed a very weak Igni sign into the cold air, aiming at the bowl. She took off her karwasz, leather vambraces, and rolled up her sleeves above her elbows. She splashed the now warm water in her face and rubbed it clean ("clean" on the Elora scale, probably not on the Ladva scale). She looked in the mirror while twirling the end of her right braid. There was nothing to twirl on the other side, that braid had been cut off in a swordfight few days ago, and she could not decide whether to cut off the other or wait until it grew back. It looked weird, but as long as she had no official business in the cities, it didn't matter. She thought back to before that lamentable accident, when she had taken a bath in an affluence of the Pontar River. A young shepherd had seen her, he had blushed when she winked at him, and ran away.

Her Witcher's medallion that was shaped like a cat's head reflected in the mirror, catching her eyes. Her gaze lingered on her mirror image, a pale face surrounded by a terrible straw blonde mess of hair. Catlike eyes and nose that was a bit long, above pale pink lips. A long scar across her left cheek… it was from her first battle. It's just a wolf, her young foolish self had thought. It taught her an essential lesson quickly: Never underestimate your enemy, especially when he, she, it or they are almost dead. That wolf's white pelt was still in her possession, sewed tightly, but in amateurish fashion, to the collar of her cloak. It served not only as a warming bit of garment, but also as a reminder of how mistakes allow oneself to improve. And of who prevails, and she hoped it would continue to be her for a much longer while.

The bed was cold, but Elora recalled with a smirk that a merchant in Vizima had once told her that only traditional dwarven stone beds withstood even the faintest Igni Sign. Of course, it had been Geralt of Rivia to try it out. The famed White Wolf was known for amicable relations to the dwarves and elves alike, even if he had never sided with any party officially. As was the Witchers' way. She had, in fact, only met him once when she was undergoing the Trial of Grasses, the most painful ritual in the Witchers' training. He had watched the ceremonies solemnly and parted soon afterwards. And like this trial had turned the White Wolf's hair white, it had turned her skin white. However, it would probably take much longer until anyone would call her the White Cat, she would always say when explaining the matter. Occasionally, when a greater bit of anonymity than she had anyway was needed, she would give her name as Eléanor Blanchard, or Le Blanc, which both meant "white". Her first name was eerily apt in the first place, meaning something like "the other one" or "the foreign one". And that, like "Girl", was one of the nicer things people said to Witchers.

She fell asleep fairly quickly, and dreamt about kittens to be rescued, punching hooded bastards and shepherds that sometimes needed baths, too.


	2. Day on the Farm, Night on the Town

When she woke the following morning, she got dressed, braided her one-sided long hair and made her way downstairs. Neither Goran nor Ladva were there, but there was bread, cheese and herbal tea on the table… but not for long! Elora spent the noon chopping wood, harvesting crops and collecting a few herbs that Goran used as spices. She kept a part for herself to make potions.

It became early afternoon, and it also became obvious that she would easily finish the tasks that earned her board and lodge at the Waclaw Farmstead. Elora took a break and walked towards the hamlet's center where the clang and bang of the blacksmith's came from. She saw Roos's father from afar. Floris, as Ladva had told her. As she approached, she greeted him and reached for her steel blade. "If you're not too busy right now, could you repair that notch?"

Floris took the blade, weighed it carefully in his hand before taking a closer look. His build was slender and seemed untypical for a blacksmith – except for his muscular arms. His face was finely chiseled with alert emerald eyes. Probably a Quadroon, a quarter-elf, Elora thought to herself. And if he was any indication, his daughter could easily be the prettiest girl in a day's reach. Yes, on horseback. Floris spoke with a melodious baritone, which Elora involuntarily tried to rank among her most favorite voices. "Not a problem, Witcher… Witcherette? Excuse me, how does your kind prefer to be addressed?"

"Witcher will do nicely," Elora smiled. "How about you?"

Floris abruptly raised his gaze from her blade, but his hand clenched tighter around its grip. "What do you…"

"It's… I mean no harm." Elora felt badly for evoking such a reaction in the man, but sometimes it was nice to…. Well, what exactly? To connect with strangers with whom one had nothing in common except they were outsiders, too? "I meant no offense. In fact, I came here to talk to you about your daughter. I think she may be in trouble."

The blacksmith went to prepare his tools, turning his face away from Elora. When he spoke again, the singsong of his voice died down. "Who is it this time? The shepherd, the innkeeper with his brutish boy, or the old carpenter? The merchant from Yvengrove who deserted his wife when she lost her beauty after a charlatan sold her some botched elixir? Someone from that cesspool of Vizima, who wants to buy her for the brothel?" He spat out the last few words disgustedly.

"Honestly, I don't know. Someone wanted to hire me for a little show to impress her, but I declined. I am not a panderer, especially not with such means." Elora had raised her voice as the smith set to work, but soon noticed that the blacksmith's pounding on her blade had been joined by a second source of noise. "Do you have an Apprentice? I was unaware that this place has that much need of smithery."

"Yes, I do. She has much to learn, but shows great promise." Floris didn't look up, but Elora grinned.

"Your daughter, then. I am all for women picking up untraditional professions. May I speak with her?"

"Of course, Witcher. Just around the corner." Floris smiled back at her and returned to the repairs.

"Hello Roos," Elora said when she stepped around the corner. A girl stood behind an anvil, a blacksmith's apron, likely her father's, wrapped twice around her slender figure. She was covered in coal dust that made her tan skin even darker; her curly dark brown hair was hidden under a boyish cap. Her green eyes sparkled as she caught Elora's gaze. She definitely was beautiful. She had her father's nose and mouth, and her voice had the same musical quality.

"I take it a woman like you is not as surprised as some other clients of my father?" she smiled.

Elora nodded. "Not really. But listen, Roos. I wanted to talk with you about something. It seems there is a man in this village or from without, who might not stick to the rules to get…"

"Me." Roos cut in. "I am so tired of this. I do want to have a husband and children some day. But I also want to be a blacksmith. Several men have asked for my hand in marriage, some claim they have a right to it based on this or that tradition, but they all expect me to give up my profession. I won't have it. And father supports my choice."

"I envy you, Roos." Elora said quietly. "I wasn't given a choice of what to become. But I can make choices now, and I think all women should be allowed to choose for themselves. Let's talk about this with your father?"

"Alright. But not now, I have a few things to finish for Elder Tadeusz. Let's meet at the Tavern tonight, I think father wanted to meet up with the mine owner anyway."

"Agreed. But let your father go before you. I will come here again and we'll go together."

Roos gave her a questioning look, but seemed to change her mind about protesting. "Before we part, may I know what your name is?"

"Eléanor.", Elora said with a slight bow, followed by a wide grin. "Witcher Eléanor de Drakenborg."

Roos wiped her hands on her apron. "Well, Eléanor de Drakenborg, I would like to greet you properly but knowing you stay with Ladva, I don't want to make you… any dirtier than you already are." She giggled, for the first time betraying her young age of probably fourteen or fifteen years.

Elora looked down to her the tips of her mud-covered boots and wiped her hands clean on her pants before running her fingers through her hair, which whirled up a fair amount of straws. She shrugged. "I promise to groom myself before meeting you at the tavern."

"So will I," said Roos. "But don't overdo it, Witcher. We locals are a ragged bunch."

Elora picked up her sword from Floris and went back to her work at the farmstead. Goran had returned from the forest with a few other villagers in tow. They had brought firewood to be cut up the next day, but were now enjoying their mugs of ale in the afternoon sun. The Witcher nodded to them on her way around the house to the remainder of hay to be stacked on the shabby wooden frame to dry. Before noon, she had whistled traditional tunes from Redania and Temeria, but now, she was intently listening in on the men's chatter. For a Witcher's acute hearing, it wasn't too far away, but the hay was rustling and the clear water rushed down the little creek. They were talking about the day's work, some village gossip and how the weather might influence their crops. But Elora was not paying as much attention to what they were saying, more to their voices and tone. The hooded man was not among them.

Later, after washing her face and diligently combing her hair, she took several attempts to pin up her single braid over the short part of her hair, in similar fashion to what she had seen several girls wear in the village earlier that day. Apparently this hairdo was easier with two braids, but the result was acceptable.

She went downstairs for supper, consisting of Goran's famed fish soup and fresh baked bread. As she was about to get up, Goran smirked at her. Ladva spoke up. "He wants to tell you to have a fun night. Oh yes, yes, we both noticed the hair, girl."

Elora blushed a bit. She had just wanted to fit in with the locals – at least that was part of it. It might help countering, for example, the fact that few townsfolk carried around two blades with them, hat cat eyes or scars across their faces. Thus, the first visit to any tavern in the Northern Kingdoms was usually a delicate affair for witchers. And so it was for women in general, though in her case, that kind of problem could most of the time be solved with a stare or a slight gesture towards the dagger in her belt. Sometimes, she used the Axii Sign to that end, but there was the slight problem that the offender forgot what they had done and would not be any wiser the next time around, and maybe towards a woman less capable of defending herself.

She signed "Thank you" to her hosts, a simple gesture she had picked up from Ladva, grabbed her cloak and made off towards the blacksmith's house. Dusk was approaching, but this remote end of the village was not lit by lanterns.

She spat out the mint leaves she had been chewing behind a shrub, and knocked at the door. Roos' bid her to enter. The small house was furnished more sophisticatedly than the Waclaw Farmstead, but less clean. There was only one oil lamp lit, on the table in the center of the main room. Roos was reading a book, it had no title written on its cover. "Just three more lines!"

Elora waited for her to finish. Roos wore a dark blue gown, her hair was tied back loosely and fixed with what could be an Elven… hair thing. Not Elora's expertise. Roos had obviously, and unlike the Witcher, found the time to take a bath in the afternoon.

Roos closed the book and put out the lamp. "Oh, that was stupid. I should have taken my cloak first. I never recall where I put my things."

Elora heard her fumble around on the table for matches, while she was scanning the dark for a cloak. "I have it. Let's go." she said a few moments later.

On the short walk towards the tavern, which was called the Golden Goose, supposedly because this hamlet had been the home of the simpleton that had found said goose, Roos was quiet but seemed occupied with something. She drew in her breath repeatedly, as if wanting to say something, but remained quiet.

"Yes, it's true," Elora responded to the unspoken question, "we can see in the dark. But in fact I had spotted your cloak while you were finishing your book."

Roos chuckled. "You're a wise woman. I wasn't sure if I should ask."

"Most of us prefer questions to having rocks thrown at us. But no, I am not wise. I am not that old."

They entered the tavern, which was not quite entirely unlike most other taverns Elora had seen. The reactions of the guests were not surprising either – some stared at her, some looked down, some began to whisper. But in all honesty, Elora had to admit that most of them were staring at Roos. It was a pleasant surprise, but a weird one, too.

They sat down at a table in the far corner of the room. Elora once again began listening for the voice of the hooded man, intently enough to startle when Floris approached and greeted them. "Eléanor, dearest daughter, pleased to see you." Eléanor? Father and daughter must have talked about her after her earlier visit, Elora realized. The women returned the greeting and Floris continued right away. "Tell me what happened, please."

Elora started by stating that the suitor was most likely not present, which seemed to cause the slightest easing of Floris musculature – not that anyone was looking anywhere they shouldn't. She told the rest of the story, with the interruption of the waitress who brought them drinks.

Floris drank, stared into his mug for a while before looking at Elora again. "Why would he tell you of the nature of this contract when it was already clear you were the wrong choice?"

Elora really had no clue about his reasons. "I am not sure. I was foolish to curse him, but I was hungry and angry. Maybe he blurted out his plans for the same reason? Perhaps he thought I'd move on the same night, after not getting the contract. Or he was signed on to the idea that Witchers don't care about anything that doesn't have a price tag attached".

"Don't blame yourself, Eléanor." Oh, that voice, when he spoke her name! "And about that price tag…" He flashed a boyish grin.

"I will keep my eyes and ears open for free. If you want me to investigate, however, I need compensation for what I can't earn with…" Elora sighed. "…making haystacks."

"Very well," Floris said, placing a small pouch in her hand after looking around for potential eye-witnesses. "If you find whoever would resort to such measures to gain our trust or even Roos' hand in marriage, I will generously add to that sum. And I have a rune that I could improve your silver sword with. As far as we can tell, it's an old Elven one that will enhance…"

Roos interrupted him. "We believe it makes Undead experience pain as if they were alive once again. Mother has written about it in her diaries. She knew such stuff." Roos looked immensely proud, and Elora recalled the untitled book that Roos had been reading earlier.

"My wife studied archaeology. She dug up many a trinket in her day, and sometimes runestones and such," Floris added.

"I accept." Elora took another gulp from her mug. Retelling the events of the night before had made her mouth dry.

They talked some more about Elven ruins and Elven runes, discussed the advantages and disadvantages of various types of weapons and had another mug of ale. Once in a while, other townsfolk greeted Floris on their way out of the tavern; some of them seemed to include Elora in their gesture, while others didn't. Roos had fallen asleep, leaning on Elora's shoulder. Her hair smelled of flowers, something that Elora's had not done since her last stay in Vizima several weeks ago, when she had fulfilled a well-paid contract and quickly spent the money on good food and Toussaint wine, a day at the bathhouse, equipment repairs and brand new boots. Boots that were now covered in mud and probably farm animal droppings. Not that it mattered in a place filled with smells of food, drink, sweat, smoke and many more that mixed into a typical eau de taverne.

At some point, Floris made an apologetic gesture and woke Roos to head home. They paid for the drinks and the blacksmith was told by one of the remaining customers to be expecting a rather large number of damaged or dull tools to repair the next day. All in all, it seemed that neither Floris nor Roos were treated badly by the villagers. Or they had not noticed. Humans were known for missing such details just as Quadroons were famous for fitting in.

They parted at the blacksmith's house. Floris bowed politely, but Roos hugged her, much to Elora's surprise. She walked back to the farmstead and sat down on one of the benches in the front. It was not yet midnight, and she enjoyed the cool but not chilly night, for the sky was full of stars. A magnificent view! Elora looked for the constellation of the Cat, and smiled. She began to meditate, something she had not done for longer than she liked.


	3. Hangover of the Worst Kind

When she woke, it was also dark, but not like a nightly sky. She shook her head trying to get rid of the drowsiness, but that lead to her seeing more stars – again not like in the nightly sky. It smelled of cabbages. When the pain subsided a bit, she was able to make out a small window far above her, and shelves filled with supplies, bottles of ale and all sorts of farming equipment. It was the Waclaw's storeroom at the back of their house. She wanted to curse, but she had also realized she had been gagged and tied up. She rolled up to her knees, trying to ignore the throbbing headache. From the lack of weight on her back, she knew that her swords were not in their scabbards. Her dagger was not on her belt, even the tiny hidden one was missing from her boot. She tugged and tore at her ties, but they were no layman's work. It was pointless. She looked around her. None of the equipment that was neatly stored in the shelves had blades, tips or anything else that seemed useful in her situation. She recalled the man at the tavern who had spoken of dull tools that would be waiting for Floris…. Oh Floris, oh poor Roos! What might have happened to them, while she had failed so painfully soon after promising to help!

If she couldn't free herself from her ties, maybe there was a way out to get help. She tried to aim an Aard Sign at the door, but she could not form the proper gesture. Elora hobbled closer to the door, looking for anything that might give her an idea of how to open it. A rusty nail protruded from the lower part of the door's frame. She moved closer, holding her cheek against the frame and tried to catch the nail in the cloth that was bound tightly over her mouth. At first, the nail scratched her left cheek several times, but then it seemed to work. She leaned in and slowly straightened herself as far as she could, tearing at the gag, pulling it a bit further down her cheek as well as beginning to rip a whole in it. After a while, the effort was rewarded with a grating noise and the cloth dropped to the dirt floor.

Elora would later point out that a Witcher screaming for help was perhaps a novelty great enough to be rewarded with a bard's song, if she could not have one for her bravery, heroic deeds and perhaps a few conquests strewn in between. In that situation, however, such thoughts had no place. She called for help and screamed Ladva's name at the top of her lungs. Goran was deaf on both ears, so she skipped that attempt.

The exertion made her feel dizzy and sick. She threw up on the floor. It smelled horribly as was to be expected of puke consisting of fish soup and ale, but there also was a certain pungent and strangely familiar smell that caught her attention. It smelled of kikimora toxin, an ingredient used for all kinds of poisons, including sleeping poisons. It must have been mixed in their drink, making her fall asleep when she began her meditation. When her metabolism quickly began breaking down the chemical agent thus starting her recovery, they must have resorted to the good old thwack to the head.

While still kneeling, she felt her braid was hanging down the side of her face. It must have loosened at some point of her mistreatment. She scanned the floor and indeed found two of the pins she had so very unskillfully used earlier for her hairdo. She managed to ignore the dizziness and get onto her feet, turned around and started fiddling with the lock, soon continuing her calls for help.

About the same time that the door sprung open, she heard Ladva call her name. "A knife, quickly. My hands and feet are tied. I was poisoned. Probably Roos and Floris as well. And knocked out. And… I failed them. But I am glad they didn't go after you."

Ladva gestured her to calm down and hurried back to the house, with Elora hobbling after her as fast as she could. Inside, Goran cut loose the ties of the Witcher, who stretched and rubbed her aching ankles. Ladva had taken a cloth, rinsed it in a bucket of water by the fireplace and wiped off the blood of Elora's scalp and face. Elora tried to protest, but the elder woman insisted that one did not get into more trouble before treating the wounds one already had.

Elora looked at Goran and tried to speak distinctly so the man could read her lips. "I need my stuff. They've taken what I had with me, but I still have a dagger and my potions in my room."

Goran quickly returned. Elora rummaged through her backpack, found flasks of a weak Raffard's Decoction and Cat's Eye, both of which she emptied in one big gulp. She hastily applied some healing salve on her cheek to hinder the rust from creating a nasty scar out of a few little scratches.

"Thank you. I owe you." Elora had jumped to her feet and made for the door.

"Good luck, girl," Ladva called after her, "We will pray to Melitele for you and the Van der Heydens."

Elora headed to the blacksmith's house for the third time that day, but the first time running as fast as she could. It was still dark, but the Cat's Eye potion greatly improved her vision. No one was to be seen; the only noise came from animals tending to their nightly business. There were tracks of a carriage and several horses leading away from the house, through the fields and towards the forest. The front door was ajar. Elora entered and quickly searched the front room, then the pantry (which smelled of cabbages), then Roos' room and finally Floris'. The blacksmith lay sprawled across the double bed, his arm hanging limply down at the side. He had begun to undress before collapsing.

"Floris," Elora croaked and cleared her throat. "Floris! Oh no!" She knelt by his side, feeling for his pulse. It was feeble and his breathing was an unsteady, quiet rasp. She dropped her backpack and fished out a little vial with a shimmering golden substance in it. Elora hoped earnestly that Floris could deal with the side effects of the Golden Oriole. She sat on the bed, propped his head up on a pillow in her lap, uncorked the vial with her teeth. While pouring its contents into his mouth very slowly, bit by bit, she adjured him to fight the poison. She tossed away the empty vial, when Floris' hands and feet twitched. Slowly at first, but she expected him to begin thrashing and kicking soon, so Elora grabbed his hands from behind and pressed them firmly to his chest, which felt incredibly soft in comparison to his rough blacksmith's hands.

While Floris squirmed in her grip, Elora found herself involuntarily drawing in the smell of his hair that tickled her face – and liking it – when she felt something metal touch her hand, an amulet on a delicate silver chain around his neck. It was an Elven locket, and there was no doubt whose picture was in it.

Floris rasp breathing began to turn into coarse utterances in the Old Tongue, Elora's grasp of which was fragmentary at best. "Shhhh. It's me, Eléanor, you're safe. You're recovering from poison."

Floris' spasms slowly subsided to a slight tremble. "I…." he said before starting to cough up something that smelled similar to what Elora had thrown up in far greater quantity a short while ago. "Thank you." He took a few deep breaths. "I think… I can get up now, if you would let me."

"Oh… of course," Elora mumbled apologetically and instantly let go of his wrists and wriggled out from under the pillow and his upper body. For a moment, she stood by the bed awkwardly, before reaching out to lend Floris a hand. Floris took it and pulled himself up, while his pants, loosened from his fits, fell down. Elora quickly looked away, blushing. She was relatively sure that Floris could not see her blush, but was uncertain whether he realized just how well she could see in the dark under her potion's effect.

Elora dismissed the thought. While staring at the wall, Floris got dressed. She took a deep breath. "Roos is gone. I think I know what direction they have taken her, though not when exactly or how far they have gotten yet. Do you have a carriage? And a finished sword at your forge? They've taken mine."

Floris answered affirmatively, and they headed towards the front door. "Wait," Floris felt for something on a trunk in a corner. He lit a candle and opened the trunk. Elora could make out a neatly folded gown and an elegant hat in the trunk. She looked away quickly, having no intention to pry.

Floris grabbed something wrapped up in thick velvet and began to untie the cordon. "I can't think of a sword more befitting the occasion than the one that belonged to Roos' mother," Floris explained as he affectionately uncoiled a smallsword with elaborate carvings in its cross-guard, and a gem encased in its pommel. "It is also one of the best blades I ever made." He walked towards the Witcher and carefully placed the sword in her hands.

Elora shifted uncomfortably. "It is a masterpiece," she said after weighing the blade, hoping to elude the topic of Floris' dead wife altogether.

The blacksmith smiled at the praise – either having heard about how picky Witchers were about their weapons, or recalling the conversation of the previous day – and continued packing a few things, including his own blade, an equally ornate, but slightly heavier sword.

Outside, Floris wordlessly went to get the horses, while Elora loaded their things and supplies onto the carriage. Dawn was breaking. Elora wondered what the coming day had in store for them.


	4. Being Put Through the Mill

They had been following the tracks that Elora had spotted for a while, quietly. At crossroads, the Witcher would hop off the carriage to inspect the tracks. Birds were singing as the sun rose. It was a beautiful morning, but that didn't lift their spirits in the least.

At one point, Floris raised his voice. "So you don't think they did the same to my girl?"

"No. It was easy for them to get the right stuff into each of our drinks. They put one poison in the ales, the other in Roos' cider. Probably just a mild soporific for her. I really doubt he wants to do her any harm, at least…" She fell quiet, unable to say the end of the sentence or take it back in its entirety.

Floris seemed to push away the thought quickly. "But they underestimated your… metabolism?"

"Yes. Alchemy is tricky. Some mixtures work great for us Witchers, apart from the toxicity, while not having any effect humans. Others won't affect us but kill even the stoutest dwarf. I must have been about to wake up when they came to check on me, so they knocked me out and tied me up. And they did a much better job with that than the poison." Elora managed a grin. "I had to scream for help. Haven't done that since I was a kid."

"You still are a kid." Floris teased her. "You could easily be my great-great-great-granddaughter, with many decades to spare. I was already quite old for a Quadroon when I met Melody."

"You don't look like it." Elora said, and meant it. She knew that Elves could only have children while they were fairly young, and had thus, wrongly, assumed that Floris wasn't much older than a hundred years or so. Perhaps it had to do with the mixed heritage. One could never be sure about it, since some half-elves or quadroons only lived as long as humans, some almost reached the Elves' longevity. And Witchers… they could live for a very long time, too, if they weren't massacred by superstitious mobs like at Kaer Morhen. That thought evoked a question, though. "But I could already be old, too. We age quite slowly."

"So I heard. But I also heard that you measure a Witcher's age in scars, and you…" Floris said. "Look! There's a hamlet ahead. That must be Ulrykstead."

As they came closer, they saw farmers starting their day's work. "I think we should ask around a bit. Perhaps someone knows something."

Floris agreed and started to ask the villagers on one side of the main road, while Elora took the other side. And indeed, they had heard the clamor of several loud-mouthed, armed men on a carriage while they were still in their houses, early in the morning. Apparently they had been in a hurry, but still had stopped for a while, though no one knew exactly what for. It seemed they had made a point to avoid the band altogether, but they were able to point her in the direction of where the noise had come from.

She walked around the last house. A large man was whetting his axe to chop a pile of wood. Several horses were grazing on a meadow. Elora greeted him. He looked up, and snorted. "I am looking for a carriage that came through. Did you see or hear anything?"

"No." He focused on his axe again.

"That's weird. I am sure it came by your house…"

"Listen. I didn't hear or see anything. I was still asleep a short while ago."

Elora sighed. She heard someone approach the house, it sounded like Floris' step. "No, YOU listen. I see the carriage's tracks in front of your house. And these horses look tired and hungry." She formed the Axii Sign. "I suggest you tell me where they went, otherwise I…"

"I won't tell you anything, except that you're a fucking Witch freak." So much for the Sign's success.

"You can choose. Deal with a fucking Witch freak, or the father of the girl who has been kidnapped by the people you're covering for." Elora paused for effect. "His only child, to be precise, from his wife who died long ago. So I suggest, if you only let them swap horses and sold them supplies, tell me what you know and we'll leave you be. And let you keep the coin."

The man looked over her shoulder, probably spotting Floris, Elora thought, because he began to speak. "Fuck. Alright. I did sell them supplies and swapped their horses. One of the two limped, so they were going very slowly. Didn't see no girl, but there was something covered by a blanket in the carriage. I overheard they were heading for the old watermill by the river to meet someone this afternoon."

"How many men?"

"Four."

"That mill. Tell me where it is."

"Doesn't your type have a map with you?"

"I know what mill he means, Eléanor." Floris said from behind her. "Let's go."

They rode for another hour, mostly remaining silent and caught up in their own thoughts, except for Floris filling her in on all details he remembered about the abandoned mill. It was about noon when they approached the last hill before their destination. They left the carriage out of sight and tied up the horses at a tree. Floris equipped his studded leather armor and took their backpack. "I don't want to make a big entrance. They probably won't expect anyone coming from the river, neither friend nor foe," Elora pondered their strategy.

"I will do what you think is best. I know how to fight, but it had only been duels for practice and testing weapons. I have no grasp of strategy. There never was need of it." Floris said with a sigh. "I only wish to have Roos back unharmed, and bring these men to justice, be it by law or by the sword."

Elora bit back her reply that she didn't really have that great of a grasp of strategy either.

There were a few trees by the riverside, obscuring the view to their advantage. Still under the influence of the Cat's Eye potion earlier, although it was fading, Elora squinted in the bright sunlight to make out details of the watermill and potential traps, ambushes or similar grievances. She saw one figure pacing to and fro.

As they came closer, Elora gestured Floris to fall back. She snuck up behind the mill. The wheel was not immersed into the water, so it was quite silent. The man who was patrolling the other side walked into her line of sight repeatedly, but did not even once look in her direction. He was muttering curses under his breath. Elora rejoiced as she saw a bale of hay nearby, even though she wondered what people always needed them for in places like this. When the guard vanished from her view the next time, she quickly stepped up to the corner and cast an Igni Sign at the hay. It caught fire immediately, which in turn caught the attention of the guard. He exclaimed a surprised curse and walked closer to inspect the supposed spontaneous combustion. When he bent forward, Elora jumped at him and knocked him out with the sword's pommel. The pommel's precious stone was preciously hard, and the mercenary collapsed into the burning bale. The Witcher quickly finished him off, then grabbed his feet and pulled him out of the fire. She waved at Floris, who walked up to her, while she imbibed a flask of Swallow, her staple regenerative potion. "Here is number one for justice by the sword," she said quietly, while turning him around to lie on his back. There was a fresh wound across his face. "That… was not me!"

Floris shrugged, but then grew pale. "Roos has her mother's dagger! I couldn't see it in the trunk earlier, but thought nothing of it. She must have taken it yesterday after you first spoke. I hope they didn't get back at her for that."

Elora shook her head. "They wouldn't dare. Look, there is only one carriage here, and they are still here, including a guard in front of the mill. If they had gotten paid, they would be much less alert, or even already be on their way to the brothel in Vizima. Thus, Roos is still here, too. And I think that cut was _her_ getting back at _them_. Tough mademoiselle, she really is."

"I sure hope you are right." Floris said, but the worries carved deep lines into his face. Elora wanted them gone.

"Follow me. I might need assistance in there." she said and walked around the corner again.

She held Melody's sword in her right hand, and knocked at the door with her left. She heard a few steps, a bar was retracted. Then, a voice from inside said, slightly quivering, "Uh. Wait. Who are you and what do you want?"

Elora nodded at Floris, you managed to banish all the grief and his usual singsong as he spoke, providing quite a good imitation of the voice of the hooded man that she had described to him as best as she could. And she could do that well, because she loved listening to people's voices. "Don't try my patience, lad, I'm here for the girl, just as agreed. I got your orens, too."

They heard the key turn in the lock, and the door swung open. A young human stuck his face out to meet Elora's fist. He tumbled back, but managed to draw his sword. "We're under attack!" he yelled as Elora took a few steps towards him. She feinted a thrust to his unprotected stomach, as he tried to parry it, she grabbed his lower arm and drove the pointy pommel into his wrist. He yelped and dropped his weapon.

"I love that pommel!" she fluted, while showing the boy towards the door, into Floris' welcoming embrace. Bonds included.

Meanwhile, the two remaining henchmen had grabbed their weapons, one of them a sword, the other an axe, and headed her way from the main room. "You shouldn't have come here, bitch. We'll make short shrift of you!" one of them, he seemed to be in charge, said. "Antek, she's all yours!"

The one called Antek, a burly human with massive arms and hands, complied, walking towards her. "I can't wait to tie you up again, and since we got the time now, get warmed up for Vizima!" he said with a filthy grin and explicit gesture.

"I can give you a warm-up alright!" the Witcher hissed at him while signing an Igni. His clothes began to sear and he growled, trying to put out the flames.

The mercenary leader, he was left-handed, now also attacked Elora, but she evaded the blow and spun to his left side, slashing his sword arm, from the elbow up to his shoulder guards. He cursed at her, while also spinning around and bashing his shield into her torso, almost throwing her off balance. She still struggled for breath when he made his next move, and her parry was so sloppy that the tip of his blade dug into her chest piece, but it did not give way. She managed an Aard Sign, pushing him hard into the wall behind him. He barely remained on his feet, and looked disoriented for a few moments.

This gave her time to regain her breath, but Antek closed in on her again, his axe raised above his head. His leather armor was charred but not damaged significantly. He looked as mad as lecherous, neither were particularly helpful in a fight like this. He swung his axe at her with full force, but she rolled to the side, and it hit the other man's shield, splitting it in two. "You fucking idiot!" his fellow snarled, snapping out of his stupor. He tossed away the remains of his shield. Meanwhile, Floris had tied up the young lad and approached the band's leader.

Antek was struggling with his balance from the impact of his axe on said shield, which Elora instinctively took advantage of, severing his Achilles tendons in one long strike. He howled and fell over. She took the chance and glanced at Floris, who was doing fine against the mercenary leader. And _looking_ fine, fiercely striking and skillfully parrying... but alas, no time! Antek had managed to roll over and sit up, once again swinging at her with his axe. He was immobilized, so she easily leapt out of harm's reach. She didn't, however, expect him to suddenly throw the axe at her. She ducked below it, barely, but by doing so, Antek was able to grab her hands and pull her down to the floor. About the same time, Floris took a hard strike to the chest and staggered.

Elora tried to wriggle free her hands, but Antek's grip was unyielding, and both her ankles still hurt from the earlier maltreatment. His breath was hot, and his grin had turned more malicious than before. "I can't feel my feet anymore, thanks to you, bitch. But I can still _feel between my legs_. Can you feel it, too?"

Antek's choice of words proved to be unwise, as it gave her an idea. The Witcher pushed herself up on one foot, and drove her other knee into _where he could feel it_. He squealed and cursed even before she followed up with a head-butt, which instantly and painfully reminded her of her blow to the head the night before. Antek, however, loosened the grip on her right hand just a bit, and she used the chance to free her hand and slit his throat before he recovered from the blow.

He went limp, and she lifted her head. Floris seemed fatigued, beads of sweat rolled down his face, mingled with a few drops of blood from a superficial scratch. Just as Elora had climbed to her feet, the band leader kicked Floris in the shins, and disarmed him with a swift move. Floris already stood with his back to the wall, and his attacker raised his sword for final blow. Elora speedily crossed the room and thrust her sword in his back. The man rattled his last breath, and dropped to the ground when Elora pulled out her blade.

Floris slumped down. "Thank you, again, Witcher. I told you I was old, but right now I feel ancient."

Elora smirked. "If you're not otherwise hurt, it will fade in a few days. Trust me, I've felt better, myself." She looked around the room. The oil lamps on the two walls had remained intact, but most pieces of furniture had not taken well to the fight; the crude bed was dashed with blood, one of the chairs had an axe stuck in it, the table on which the two men had played cards – guards' and criminals' most favorite game in… basically everywhere – was missing a leg.

On the table, as a stake in the game, was… "Melody's dagger!" Floris grabbed the blade. "But where is Roos?"

Elora finished her inspection of the room and found the closet in the very back, large enough to accommodate someone twice Roos' size. She went to open it, but it was locked.

"There, on the chain around his neck…" Floris said and walked towards the mercenary that had almost killed him. He pulled the key off the dead body and threw it to her. Elora unlocked the closet. Roos was asleep, tied up and gagged, but seemed otherwise unharmed.

"Roos!" Floris called out and picked up his daughter. Roos babbled something, but didn't wake.

Elora pulled the bloody cover from the bed, and Floris put his daughter on it. Elora cut the girl's ties and gag and felt forehead, pulse and breath. "She's fast asleep, nothing nasty like we got. She may wake up without remembering any of this." She gestured at the two dead bodies on the floor. "I think it's best we let her sleep it off."

"Yes. Seems you were right... He didn't lock that closet to keep her in, but to keep his men out." Floris said thoughtfully, while holding his daughter's hand. "I don't what I'd do if…" Elora saw a single tear trickle down his cheek.

Elora swallowed hard. "This… isn't over yet, Floris. I will get the one we left outside, then we'll wait for that bastard who is responsible for all of this."

She dragged the corpse into the mill, casually dropped it in front of the tied-up lad, who grew paler than before and trembled. "You don't want to do anything stupid, right?" she said, and he nodded vigorously.


	5. Are Things Ever as They Seem?

While they waited, Floris not once let go of Roos' hand, even while Elora carefully treated his wounds. Her own cuts and bruises had started to heal due to the potion, her skin tingled and itched from the accelerated regeneration. She remembered Floris' earlier remark, that a Witcher's age was measured in scars, not years. It was true, apart from the fact that they frequently cheated by using regenerative potions. When imbibed in time, scarring was minimal. The toxicity from their Witcher's potions was another problem, however; when not kept in check, it could drive them mad. And the only thing that the common folk dreaded more than a Witcher, was one who had completely lost it.

They ate and drank from their supplies quietly. Elora intently listened and frequently looked out of the barred windows. It didn't take very long until she spotted a carriage drawn by a single horse in the distance. "He's here."

Elora gestured Floris to remain where he was, and set to untie the young lad. "Listen. You will do exactly as I say, or you won't live to see how you might look with a beard. Ask him who he is, and then let him in as if nothing had happened. Shut the door when he's in, and get out of the way. Got that?"

The boy trembled. "Y-y-yes, M-m-mistress."

"I doubt that will work when you stammer like that." Floris said unemotionally.

Elora nodded, and grabbed the boy by his shoulder, the fingers of her left hand forming the Sign of Axii. "Relax. Do as I said, any everything will be fine."

"Yes. As you wish, Mistress," he said. Elora resisted the urge to grin with triumph. The Sign of Axii was the hardest to learn for a young Witcher, since it didn't concern tampering with the elements, but dealing with living creatures (without the killing part), which was neither a significant element in their training, nor made particularly easy by most humanoids.

Someone knocked at the door. Elora picked up her blade. Floris grabbed his, and grimly stood before Roos' like a bear mother would in front of her cubs.

"Who is there?" the lad asked.

"He who asked you to come here" a voice said. Elora nodded to Floris. It was the voice she recalled. The lad opened the door, revealing the hooded man, who took a few steps inside the mill before making sense of the situation.

"You again!" he said to Elora, as the lad pushed shut the door behind him, and quickly ran away across the room. The hooded man drew his blade, but his stance betrayed his insecurity.

"You wanted a Witcher to play intimidating bastard freak, and you will get one fine performance! I want to know who you are, and if you have anything to say in your defense before I decide what to do with you." Elora snarled back at him. "What is your excuse for taking a child from its father? Fate? Destiny? Don't overestimate your place!" Elora felt anger well up in her, but tried to bite it back. This was a touchy subject for her, but it should not distract her in a fight.

"I…" The hooded man seemed uncertain what to do. "No… well… it's complicated!" He glanced at the three bodies on the floor, and at Floris, who fiercely stared back at him. "I never wanted to harm her. I just…"

"What? Speak, or…" Elora waved the tip of her sword towards him.

His shoulders slumped and he dropped his weapon. "I don't want to die. Not like this. Not as a common criminal, and not in this condition…" He took a deep breath, and pulled back his hood. His face was of a translucent silvery grey hue, his blood wessels were swollen and protruded from his skin, in his face and down his neck, presumably over his entire body.

"You see, I was not always like this…" he gestured at his face.

"A curse?" Elora inquired.

"Yes. I fell from grace with my master, a powerful wizard, but at times, a particularly mad one. In one of his worse phases, he thought I had stolen and sold his grimoire. He was furious and didn't care who had done it, and punished me."

"If he was your master… you're a sorcerer, too?"

"Yes, but the curse stripped me of my powers. He said he would lift it if I returned his book. I've been trying to do this ever since, and I've gotten close. I am pretty certain I know who has the book." He sounded excited, but that quickly faded again when he continued. "Then I heard that my master had fallen ill, it was serious. I thought that his death might lift the curse, but… as you can see, it didn't... and I wasn't going to take chances. I returned to him, told him in his last sane moments that I was close to finding his damned book. He said it was too late, and he had not the strength to lift it himself, but he told me to look into his crystal orb for how to lift the curse."

"Roos… you saw Roos in it?" Elora raised a brow.

"The girl, yes. It would seem I need the grimoire and the girl. I have heard of other curses, which were lifted by…"

"…a pretty young girl staying with the – excuse me – monster for a year, they fall in love or even just have consensual sex, and the curse is lifted." Elora continued his sentence repetitiously. "That's what everyone knows. In truth, curses aren't all the same; they are as different as the people who utter them. And even if some girls may fall in love with you if you are a good person – to which we have proof to the contrary – and treat them well, you can't count on it. It just doesn't work that way."

"You… you know about curses?"

"Perks to being a Witcher, even though some might call that a curse in itself." Elora responded wryly. "Back to the matter at hand. It would have to be an incredibly strong curse if it could only be lifted by one particular person. There must be something else to it." She scratched her head. "Listen. I believe you. I cannot condone what you did, and your choice of accomplices was a terribly bad one, but I certainly won't kill an unarmed man in cold blood." Without taking her eyes off the slumped figure in front of her, she continued. "Floris, if it's okay with you… I will try to lift his curse. It has something to do with Roos, and I think it would be best if we could free her from this connection to malign magic. I will also see to it that he and the lad will be tried for their actions."

"If it doesn't harm her in any way, and if Roos agrees, so will I." Floris said.

"Good. Now, I must warn you," she said to the cursed man, "that the prisons they put mages in are said to be much worse than those for common folk. And in your current shape, even those won't be a stroll in the temple garden." She paused, studying his face. He looked desperate and wanted to say something. "Wait, let me finish. Under other circumstances, I would offer you a quick death if you preferred that, but I'm under contract to protect the girl, so I need to find out what's up with this condition of yours."

"You don't seem to understand! This _is_ a prison!" He sighed. "I know your kind is treated badly, but people still need you. You have a purpose, a reason for being what and where you are. I have spent years and years to learn to use magic, and it has been stripped from me for something I didn't do. I wanted to search for people to help me, but I was driven away from any settlement before I could explain myself. Being treated like a monster for so long… you get used to it; it changes you. But I don't want to become one… I guess you can see how well this has turned out, kidnapping an innocent girl. But I am so tired of running, and hiding, and scaring myself when I see my reflection."

He looked miserable, and his words hit home. Elora knew too well how tempting it was to give in to the expectation people had of Witchers. It would be so much easier in the short run, using their fear for her gain, using violence to get what she wanted… but in the long run, it would deprive her of her own humanity, and make it that much harder to follow the Witchers' path. Yet it required self-discipline to stick to one's code of honor, and maybe not everyone were granted their share of it.

"I'm not your judge," she reminded him, as well as herself. "I will take you to the guard in Vizima. I hear the Guard Captain is a reasonable sort; he might treat you based on your behavior, not your appearance. I will tie your hands only, but if you decide to do anything stu –"

"I won't, I promise!" he blurted out, turned around and raised his hands behind his back.

"Good." She turned around to Floris to throw her the rope. While turning in his direction, she glanced at Roos, who was shifting. "I think she's is about to wake up."

While Floris returned to his daughter, Elora tied the prisoner's hands. "Same goes for you, lad. No tricks. I will tell the Captain you helped us, but you're nothing to me, so don't botch your second chance to get out of this mess alive."

"Yes, Mistress."

"You could also make yourself useful before we leave, and pack our stuff. Oh, and speaking of useful: I would like my swords back."

The lad grew pale. "M-m-mitress, we only have the smallish silvery one. B-b-bram here," he pointed at the dead leader, "he wanted to sell that one, and k-keep the other. But we… we lost it somewhere on our way."

Elora grimaced. The things people said about how Witchers cherished their swords were not exaggerated. She sighed, and began to search the room and dead bodies for valuables. It wasn't like they needed any of it anymore. Certainly not as much as she did.


	6. Tying Up Loose Ends

On their way back, Roos was regaining her consciousness and Elora had commanded both of her prisoners to remain silent. She was sitting between them and the Van der Heydens, just to be sure, but neither of the tied men raised so much as a brow at them. Precisely, one could not see the one prisoner's brow, because Elora had pulled his hood over his face again not to scare Roos.

Elora relaxed slightly and imbibed a White Honey elixir to purge the toxicity caused by the other potions; toxicity that was beginning to make her feel sick and dizzy.

Roos began to enquire what had happened, who the two men were, and where they were; it became very apparent she was largely unaware of the events of the last night and that day. Floris promised to tell her the whole story once they were home and had recovered from the stress, but Roos insisted on being told what had happened with her dagger, since she did remember holding it.

Floris began by saying that he guessed that one of the mercenaries might have behaved ungentlemanly, as Roos suddenly exclaimed "Yes! I slashed his face, I did!" and made a feeble but defiant gesture.

Elora smirked. "Yes you did. The scar wouldn't have turned out quite as pretty as mine," she gestured at her cheek, "but not bad for a beginner. And very courageous, Roos. Do you remember what happened then?"

"Yes… the man with the sword and shield yelled at them to leave me alone, that I was their pawn, not prize." Floris twitched at her words and flashed an angry glance at the hooded figure, who turned away his head. "Then they gave me that drink again, I tried to refuse it, but they were too strong."

Roos fell asleep again, leaning against her father on the coachman's seat, and Elora thoroughly cleaned her swords to pass the time. She wondered if she would ever found her own steel swords again, searching the entire distance would be tedious. While caught up in planning how to go about it, Floris had glanced back at her more than once. "I thought I would never be able to… but you saved my girl, and my own life, so I'd be honored if you took this blade as a reward on top of everything else I offered you."

Elora raised her eyes to meet his. "I…" She wanted to decline.

"Let's be honest, Witcher… that old blade of yours has seen far better days. I should know, I took a very close look at it yesterday." Floris smiled. "Please, take Melody's blade, I know she would want you to have it."

"Alright, alright." Elora gave in. "Thank you. It is a superb blade."

When they reached the hamlet, Elora took Roos to the Waclaw farmstead. Ladva and Goran were delighted to learn that everyone was alive, and gladly agreed to take care of the girl until the Witcher and the blacksmith returned. Floris remained at the carriage to watch the prisoners, while Elora set out to have a few words with the innkeeper. Floris had suggested that he was a willing accomplice to their poisoning because he, Floris, had adamantly refused to marry Roos to the innkeeper's crude and brutish son. He denied any involvement, but he was as dim as his son, and Elora easily managed to loosen his tongue with an Axii sign. He admitted, in front of several customers, to spiking their drinks in exchange for money from the mercenary leader, leading to an outcry of the villagers present, who practically begged Elora to take him away.

It was getting dark, and Floris and Elora agreed to take shifts with watching their three prisoners. The hamlet had no guardhouse, so they brought them to a hayrick, had untied them for a while to stretch, eat and drink and let them spend the night in relatively comfortable circumstances. They finally learned that the cursed man's name was Baldor, and the young lad was called Pawel.

Elora was taking the first watch, and had insisted on taking a third one when she realized how exhausted the blacksmith looked. She told him how little sleep Witchers needed, but he wouldn't listen, protested that she had done so much for them that she deserved to rest. She had looked him deeply in the eye, held her fingers in the Sign of Axii yet again, and repeated that she didn't need as much sleep as him. That was the truth, but just barely. He complied.

Elora's first watch was uneventful. She prepared potions while the three men were sleeping, or at least lay quietly in the hay. When Floris relieved her, Elora fell asleep quickly, despite everything that had been crossing her mind since returning to the hamlet. Her second watch went by like the first, but she paced the room, pondering the curse and its victim, and what the connection to Roos might possibly be. And was Baldor a monster in a monster's body, or just a desperate man in a prison of flesh, as he had said himself?

In the morning, Elora packed her things from the mill and from her room at the Waclaw farmstead. Ladva and Goran were sorry to see her go, and so was she, but she was glad to have her Witcher's life back. No more harvesting crops, stacking hay and plodding through manure. Or Warg stew.

Ladva provided her with food for the journey, and Floris slipped her another pouch of orens. "Thank you, Witcher Eléanor de Drakenborg." Elora tensed up as gave her a fatherly kiss on the forehead. Roos hugged, thanked and greeted her several times, until Floris grabbed her hand and pulled her back. "Roos, she'll be back soon."

Elora and her three prisoners arrived in Vizima in the early afternoon. At the city gate, she explained she was under contract by a Temerian citizen, had captured three criminals and wished to speak to the Guard Captain. The guardsmen agreed to watch the prisoners for her, which surprised Elora a bit, but seemed to confirm what she had heard about the guard under Vincent Meis' command.

The Guard Captain was a middle-aged man with an alert as well as contemplative look. It was obvious he had seen plenty of fights, but not recently – in fact, he had developed a bit of a paunch. He was surprised at Elora's request, but agreed to take custody of the three men, in exchange for her help with a graveir problem at the cemetery. She was supposed to kill them the same night, and return to speak with him in private afterwards. It was a bit odd, but she complied, since she was happy to not have to watch three prisoners at the same time any longer.

She dragged a stool in front of Baldor's cell, and began to ask him a few questions. He could not remember the words of the curse bestowed upon him by his master – that was common with many curses, the victims often forgot how it had happened. He had intact memory of how the grimoire looked, and believed it to currently be in the possession of a Wizard of Kovir who lived in Oxenfurt. Baldor had no idea what Roos' actual connection to his curse could be, but Elora could tell that he was seized by remorse for assuming he had to capture the girl to lift the curse, and even more so that he carried out the plan. "You see, it wasn't easy researching the whereabouts of the grimoire when you look like I do. And I couldn't just walk up to her father and ask, could I? Instead, I tried to have her _bought_ under false pre–"

"Shut up!" Elora hissed. "I told you I wasn't your judge. And I'm certainly not one of those people who want to look inside your head to tell you what's wrong in there." She got up. "And I tell, you, there _is_ something wrong in there. It's about time you own up to it and make no more excuses. You're not the only who has been wronged and suffered for it." She stormed out of the guardhouse.


End file.
